Shot in the Dark
by LadyKayoss
Summary: [Movieverse] When Peter is seriously injured, MJ turns to Otto to solve the mystery behind his attack.
1. Clarity

Disclaimer: All Spider-Man characters are property of Marvel. No profit is being made from their use. A certain amount of pleasure is being derived from usage, however.

Author's Note: This fic is a bit of a change for me; I like to dabble in different genres, in an effort to appeal to a wider audience. It's a mystery, with a noir-ish feel to it; at least, I _hope _it has a noir-ish feel to it. The way I imagine it is like the _Sin City _filmblack and white with the only color being red; the crimson glow of the actuator's lights, the scarlet of MJ's hair, the bright vermilion of blood… And I can't think of any more names for red. But you get the point. Imagine it how you'd like; I just like the black and white and red color scheme. This chapter is mostly MJ-centric; my apologies. While Otto plays a big part of this story – he's one of the main characters, in fact – he doesn't appear until the next chapter. Please, bear with me. MJ is the other main character, and she needs some time in the spotlight!

**Announcement: **I have tried my best to keep my fics updated in a timely fashion, but this semester of college is more demanding than I expected, and I have difficulty writing even one chapter a week. I didn't even want to start this new fic quite yet, except that this chapter was what came easiest to me last time I sat down and wrote. So please, be patient; I'll eventually update your favorites; it's just going to take a little time.

_**Shot in the Dark**_

_One – Clarity_

It was never clear, not at first. The world around him would slow to a crawl as the precognitive warning seized his senses, demanding immediate action. But it was never specific; he had to use the precious extra seconds granted him by his gift to locate the source of danger, then come up with a solution that would save himself and any innocent bystanders in harm's way. It was worse at night; his abilities didn't brighten the shadows cloaking the danger, merely pointed him in its general direction. Even with unnatural speed and agility, those seconds weren't always enough, as the scars that laced his body attested to. Peter Parker had learned over the years not to think when the sensation took hold, but to act instinctively, trusting his abilities to guide him out of immediate danger. This time, danger took the form of a piece of hot lead slicing the air a hairsbreadth from his cheek, burying itself in the brick behind him with a shower of rusty red chunks. Senses still expanded, Peter located the shooter lying flat on the rooftop across from him, sighting through the rifle's scope before squeezing the trigger.

He sprang out of the bullet's path, keeping his leaps within bounds of normal human ability. Desperately, he cast his gaze about, seeking cover, somewhere he could change into his Spider-Man costume… which, he realized belatedly, was bundled beneath a dumpster in an alley about ten feet away, removed because the cloth had soaked up the scummy rainwater of a puddle he'd fallen into, and he hadn't wanted to soil the shabby but clean suit he now wore.

Another yank at his senses, another bullet tearing through the air towards him, another swift evasion… There was nowhere to hide; the buildings were stacked side by side, with no room between for an alley, and there was no parking along the street. He didn't spare time to wonder who this person was, or why he was the target; there was no room for any thought beyond escape. He needed to get somewhere he could use his abilities without being seen, but the clever gunman had caught him in a position where he wasn't free to maneuver.

Glass exploded behind him, showering Peter with jagged shards and left him with a fine dusting of fragments in his hair. He sprang upwards, hoping to catch the broken window's edge and pull himself inside, but he glimpsed heavy bars set into the frame, too close together for even his nimble frame to fit through. He kicked off the building's face, hoping to fling himself out of the gunman's range…

And finally, his heightened senses revealed the world to him with complete clarity, and he saw the final bullet, fired in the wake of the previous shot by a _second _gunman, hitherto unseen, his leap's trajectory taking him straight towards it… He couldn't change the direction of his leap in time, the bullet was too close… Death was bearing down on him, unavoidable, inescapable… He attempted a midair corkscrew, a desperate attempt to change his trajectory, but he knew with grim certainty that it was too late.

And then he crumpled, as a searing pain tore its way through his spine, drilling into his torso and driving the breath from his lungs. His limbs ceased to obey his commands, and he landed hard on the concrete below, gasping and choking as he struggled for air. Dark blots swam at the edge of his vision, expanding, eclipsing the view of the gathering crowd. Sound dimmed, faded, until even the harsh cries of the siren cutting the air was overcome by the all-consuming darkness that swallowed him whole…

A block away, behind elaborately carved doors with frosted glass windows sat a scarlet-tressed young woman, brow furrowed with anxiety as she stole another glance at the elegant clock on the wall opposite her. Around her, restaurant patrons chatted amiably, sipping wine and eating their meals, lost in the fantasy of prosperity the restaurant cultured. They were relaxed, happy, willing to pretend that Real Life had ceased to exist once they crossed the threshold.

It was an illusion that Mary Jane Watson longed to join them in. Instead, she was left to stare at the beads of water running down her glass, leaving a glistening ring around its base. She dipped her finger in the pool and began to trace a pattern across the table cloth, creating a delicate framework of lines that crossed at a central location, then began to connect the lines with a spiral… a spider-web.

_Late again. _She was unsurprised; she'd become used to Peter's constant tardiness. It was a part of accepting who he was. Still, a part of her chafed at this constant waiting, when time was something she had precious little of, thanks to a new role she'd accepted. She wiped her palm across the spider's-web, smearing it beyond recognition. A shadow fell across the table, the waiter again, asking if she knew when the gentleman was going to arrive, and would she like to order an appetizer while she waited? Mary Jane was about to refuse, then she realized she'd been waiting for an hour, and that her stomach was protesting the lack of food. She ordered the breadsticks and went back to the interminable wait.

A commotion arose at the door, tearing Mary Jane's attention from the napkin she was wadding. She watched absently, admiring the dress of the white-faced woman who had just arrived, clinging to the arm of her male companion. And then snippets of their conversation drifted over to her, words like "gunfire" and "police." Mary Jane went very still as she tried to absorb what the couple was saying, but she could hear little over the pounding of her heart.

And with a flash of clarity, Mary Jane _knew_. The world around her blurred, took on a surreal quality as she rose from her seat, numb legs carrying her without her guidance past the maitre d' and out the elaborately carved doors with their frosted glass windows into the city's gritty, ugly reality, where a crowd of people gawked at the paramedics crouched over a far too still form. She shoved her way through the crowd, heedless of the shouts as she stepped on feet or jostled shoulders. She only had eyes for the broken shape in the widening pool of blood that looked too, too red under the lamplight, unreal. _No, this can't happen to you, not you, not when you've survived so much worse without a scratch… _But it was him; his too-pale face was the only part of him that wasn't obscured by the paramedics. "Peter," she choked out. Then, screaming, "Peter!" She rushed forward, intending to be at his side when he woke up and said, "Hey, it's not as bad as it looks, it's just a flesh wound…" with that wry humor of his. Because Peter Parker was superhuman; he couldn't die. Not like this.

A police officer halted her, grabbing her wrist before she was in arm's reach of her beloved. His lips moved, but his words fell on deaf ears. Mary Jane only had eyes for the motionless body being carefully stabilized before transferal to a gurney. This wasn't a ruse, a prank, a minor wound that Peter could just shrug off.

This was Real.

She tried to pull away from the police man, but he held her in a vise like grip, and finally, his words penetrated the haze. "Do you know him, miss?"

"Peter," she said again. "That's Peter. He's my…" The sobs welled up, choking off the rest of her words. She wanted to wail, to beat her fists against this man holding her back from her beloved, but she could only lean against him, sobbing into his uniform. The man patted her awkwardly, and didn't pull away, though she held on to him with a crushing grip that made him wince. Her world had just come crashing down around her in a flood that threatened to pull her along with it, and she clung to this last bit of stability as if her life – or Peter's – depended upon it.

XXX

He was pale, so very pale, the same colorless hue as the pillow and sheets that supported his frail body. Only the rust red of drying blood staining the bandages plastered along his spine interrupted the monochrome image. Mary Jane cradled Peter's limp hand in hers, careful not to dislodge the tubes curling out of his arm. She gave it a gentle squeeze, as she had been doing periodically, each time hoping, praying that he'd return the squeeze, that his eyes would flutter open and he'd smile when he saw that she'd remained loyally at his side… But he didn't wake, hadn't woken in the hours since he'd come out of surgery and had been transferred to the ICU. She stifled a yawn; it was well after midnight, but she knew she'd never be able to sleep.

The bullet had nicked his spinal cord, shattered two ribs, and punctured his lung, resulting in pneumothorax. The tear had been ragged, and he'd lost a lot of blood. The doctors had removed the bone fragments from his lung and re-inflated it. He'd received a transfusion of blood, and the damage to his spine had been seen to by a neurologist – though it was too early to ascertain whether there was any permanent damage. The doctors gave him a fifty-fifty chance at living – chances that were considerably lowered by his comatose state. _He'll live, _Mary Jane told herself firmly. _Peter can take more damage than a normal person; if anyone can pull through this, he can!_

If only he'd just wake up…

The only plus side was that the doctors had been too busy saving Peter's life to look closely at his blood; if they had, she was certain they'd find something… anomalous. It was a miracle that he hadn't been wearing his Spider-Man uniform under his suit; the nightmare would only intensify if the doctors discovered the truth.

Movement at the door drew Mary Jane's attention; Peter's Aunt May entered, her face just as pale and frail-seeming as Peter's. She held two steaming cups of coffee in her hands, and silently offered one to Mary Jane. She accepted, taking a sip before setting it aside. May took the seat next to Mary Jane, her expression one of shock and numbness. May Parker may have looked like a fragile old woman, but there was a surprising strength to her. She'd survived the murder of her husband and attacks by two super-villains. She was made of stern stuff, and she'd survive this – but only if Peter pulled through.

"They'd like to speak to you again," May said, her voice soft, as if she lacked the strength to even speak. "Go on… we'll be all right," she said.

Mary Jane stood, taking up her coffee as she did so. She'd already been grilled by the police once, when Peter had first been brought in, but she'd still been hysterical. They were probably hoping she'd calmed enough to think more clearly. Or… perhaps they'd found discrepancies in her story… She gave May a reassuring squeeze as she passed the older woman and went to the doorway, pausing only once to look back at Peter. There was no sign of life; the only sounds were the hums of the machines that kept Peter alive. She turned her back on him and walked unsteadily down the hallway. She paused to duck into a bathroom, washing the tears from her flushed cheeks and finger-combing her hair into a semblance of order, then took a deep breath and readied herself to face the police.

The younger men who had grilled her earlier had been replaced by an older man dressed in a brown suit, absently twisting the shaft of a cane around in his hands. He looked up at her approach and smiled warmly. "Ms. Watson?" He offered his hand. "I'm Captain George Stacy. I'm in charge of this investigation. How is the young man?"

She gave him a wavering smile. Inwardly, she wondered what the police had found to call in a captain; clearly, they thought this was more than a random shooting. It was something she privately agreed upon. Peter wouldn't fall to a stray bullet. "He's in a coma. Until he wakes up, the doctors won't know if there's any permanent neural damage." She was pleased that her voice didn't break, though there was a slight quaver she couldn't suppress.

"I'm sorry to pull you away from his side; but I only want a moment of your time," Stacy said. "You were in Sorento's at the time of the shooting, correct?" Captain Stacy asked, consulting his notes. Mary Jane nodded. "Waiting for him," Stacy continued. "Did he call and tell you he was going to be late?"

Mary Jane shook her head. "No, but Peter…" she had to tread carefully here. "Punctuality isn't his strong suit; he's late more often than not. He's a photographer for the _Daily Bugle; _he takes the pictures of Spider-Man. Whenever something comes up, he tries to be there with his camera. I just take it for granted that he isn't going to be there when he tells me."

"So he's the one that takes those photos? He's fantastic; his action-shots are breath-taking, as if he was swinging right along with Spider-Man."

Mary Jane was very glad she had training as an actress; she didn't want to give way how close to the truth Stacy really was. "He really is very good."

"Does he take risks getting these shots?" Stacy asked.

She thought of the scars that marred his body, scars that had come from bullets, knives, flying shrapnel, super-villains... "Yes," she admitted.

"So he could have been caught in a battle between Spider-Man and the gunman," Stacy mused. "Except that we have witnesses that state that Spider-Man wasn't on the scene when Mr. Parker was shot. Forensics say that the weapon used was a sniper rifle – not a weapon normally carried for, say, a mugging. We think it may have been premeditated," Stacy said delicately.

There was a lump in Mary Jane's throat. _Oh, Peter, what have you gotten yourself into? Why would someone want to kill you? _Captain Stacy seemed to be thinking along the same lines. "Has he mentioned anything to you about being in trouble? Strange happenings? Death threats?" Mary Jane shook her head to each, but it wasn't quite the truth.

"Does Mr. Parker just take Spider-Man photos, or are his talents ever used elsewhere?"

Mary Jane considered. "He's freelance, so he isn't usually given assignments that a staff reporter can handle, but sometimes he's called in, and he usually accepts because he needs the money." She regretted revealing the last, but it was too late now.

Captain Stacy ran his thumb absently along the polished wood handle of his cane. "While it is possible he was simply in the wrong place in the wrong time, evidence supports the theory that Mr. Parker was attacked for a reason, perhaps to silence him. I have men questioning his boss, asking for photos, negatives, or any notes that may contain evidence." He grimaced; clearly, he'd dealt with J. Jonah Jameson before. "May Parker gave us permission to search her nephew's things, so we'll be searching his apartment tonight." She felt a momentary stab of panic; what if they found Peter's Spider-Man costume? But, no, it wasn't there… she didn't know where it was, since Peter hadn't been wearing it when he'd been shot, but she knew he would have been wearing it earlier – he must have ditched it before he was supposed to meet her. "If you can think of anything he may have said or done, please, let me know." He handed her a card with a number on it, and she thanked him and put it in the pocket of her coat.

There was another possibility, one that she couldn't tell Captain Stacy: that it hadn't been Peter Parker who was the target, but Spider-Man. Could the shooter have known his identity, and struck while the vigilante was vulnerable?

If that was the case, then Captain Stacy and the police would be severely handicapped in their investigation. She stood up, taking her now-cool coffee, and headed back to Peter's hospital room to continue her silent vigil. The more she thought about how the police would be missing a big chunk of the puzzle, the more her heart sank. _Maybe the shooter was just after Peter. Maybe he just photographed something damaging, something someone would want to cover up. The police will find out, the person will be arrested, and justice will be served._

But she had a gut feeling that it wouldn't be that simple. Spider-Man was a big factor of this shooting, of that she was certain. _I'll have to do my own investigating on the side, _she realized. _I may be the only one who can unearth the truth. _It was a daunting prospect, not to mention a dangerous one. _I… I don't know if I can do this alone, Peter…_

XXX

She'd spent the entire night at Peter's side, watching, waiting, hoping… praying… He hadn't moved once during that long vigil; only the steady rise and fall of his chest and the hiss of air through the respirator tube showed that he still lived. Dawn had crept up on them, and finally May, who had dozed off sometime around three in the morning, shooed Mary Jane off to get some sleep, promising to contact her the moment Peter opened his eyes. She'd left with the greatest of reluctance, but was forced to admit to herself that she was doing Peter no good by refusing to eat and sleep.

Mary Jane trudged out the lobby doors and into the sunlight, blinking at the unexpected brightness. The day promised to be a glorious one; one of summer's last. It didn't seem fair for the weather to be so beautiful when life had taken such a horrific turn. _It should be raining,_ she thought. _A storm; Heaven should be weeping for the fall of a mighty hero. _

She considered flagging down a taxi, then decided against it. A long walk would give her the chance to sort out her thoughts, come to grips with her situation. She drew her coat closer around her rumbled dress, a daring, low-cut curve-hugging scarlet sleeve that she'd bought just for that night. She'd thought Peter would love it. And now… he'd never even see it, because there was no way she could ever wear this dress again, without thinking of last night.

She ignored the bustling world around her. Life went on, even if her own had come to a crashing halt. But, no, it hadn't been unaffected by the shooting; to Mary Jane, it had developed a bleakness, as if a veil over the world had been peeled away, revealing the grim reality. She'd been in New York for almost three years, faced the worst of what it had to offer, but had still clung to her illusions that it was still a safe, friendly place – as long as her protector swung through the streets meting out justice. And now… it suddenly seemed a cold, empty place. Dangerous. What if one of the laughing pedestrians around her was the shooter?

She wrapped her hands around herself, feeling a chill that had nothing to do with the weather. Mary Jane felt like she'd never be warm again…

Her steps slowed as awareness of her surroundings sank in. The frosted glass doors of Sorento's, elegance lost in the garish light of day, were set slightly above street level to her left. A lump formed in her throat as she took the last stumbling steps to the cordoned-off square of pavement where Peter had lain lifeless, like a broken doll.

Shards of glass gleamed amongst chunks of brick, catching her eye and momentarily drawing her gaze from the dark stain that lay at the heart of the blocked-off area. Her eyes swept over the site, lingering over the blood stain before slowly roving upward, taking in the bullet-riddled brick above. There were a handful of the holes, each one marked by the investigative team that had painstakingly combed over the site for evidence. She wondered what they thought of the holes that were nearly ten feet up.

Staring at the site, the images of Peter, skin too-white against the hospital bed, his bandages too red, came back to haunt her. Peter, battered, broken. Comatose. Dying, or at least, in critical condition. He'd certainly never be the same again after this, _if _he pulled through. She swayed, and her knees threatened to give out completely. She caught herself and turned her back on the scene of the crime, ignoring the concerned looks from two passerby who had caught sight of her near-swoon.

There was nothing she could do here. Mary Jane began to walk away, retracing what had surely been Peter's path the previous night. It wasn't until then that she realized she'd had a goal in mind all this time, a task to keep her mind too busy to finally break down completely and lose its ability to reason. Newly aware of this sense of purpose, she ducked into the first alley she came to, scanning first the walls above to see if it had been stashed somewhere, then examining the base of the walls in case it had fallen. She hoped it hadn't already been found and sold to the _Bugle _again…

There, beneath the dumpster – a bright blotch of scarlet, vivid against the alley's monochromatic concrete-and-stone setting. She dropped to her knees and fished out the familiar missing costume. It was folded sloppily; it had probably been webbed to the dumpster's underside, but had dropped when the webbing had dissolved. She wrinkled her nose at the costume's rank odor, which hadn't come from its night under the dumpster. For the costume to have picked up its layer of dried trash, he must have been _in _the dumpster. No wonder Peter hadn't worn it to the restaurant.

She bundled it up and looked for a place to put it; unfortunately, her purse was too small to carry all of it. She was forced to carry it in pieces, shoving sections in her purse, her pockets, and even, to her disgust, down her dress when she just couldn't find any more room for the leggings, the least rank of the pieces. She refused to leave it behind, however, so down the dress it went.

She attempted to brush off her knees, but only spread the congealed trash goo and chunks of rotting food further over her dress. She gave up and exited the alley, hoping that there'd be a taxi driver willing to pick up this poor girl who surely resembled a raccoon with the dark rings under her eyes and the sting of garbage clinging to her clothing – her trembling legs suddenly felt too unsteady to carry her home.

A taxi stopped for her, and she climbed inside, hoping the reek of garbage wouldn't carry to the driver too quickly. Her address was at the tip of her tongue, but when she spoke, she realized she'd given him another address entirely. Instead of going home, Mary Jane directed the driver towards Peter's apartment.

XXX

The cramped, dark one-room apartment was as cluttered and unkempt as usual, though there was something… off about it. The police presence was almost palpable, as if by simply touching Peter's possessions, they'd tainted his home. At least they wouldn't be back, or they would have left orders not to let anyone in; Mr. Ditkovitch had muttered obscenities – or at least, that's what she thought they were, but it was hard to tell because they were in his native tongue – about the disruption the cops had caused, but he'd let Mary Jane into Peter's room. He'd left her alone, grumbling about how Peter's rent was late and now he definitely wouldn't get it any time soon… Mary Jane had swallowed back her anger at the man's seeming lack of compassion.

She crossed the short distance from the door to the bed with its flat, worn mattress and shabby bedding. The springs squealed in protest when she sat upon it, and the edge of one dug into her thigh, but she was oblivious to the pain as she stared dully forward, towards the mirror hung on one wall, with photos of her and a ticket stub for one of her performances of _The Importance of Being Earnest_ wedged into the frame. There was little else to decorate the gloomy room, and Mary Jane suddenly understood why Peter spent so much time web-slinging: to escape this cramped little hole in the wall. Even after just a few short minutes in here, it felt to Mary Jane like the walls were closing in.

There was so little of Peter actually in this room… She remembered seeing his room when he'd lived with Harry in their posh two-level apartment, where every nook, cranny, and corner had been crammed with things Peter had collected. But here, except for the cluttered top of his dresser, the two cartons stacked against the wall with the fewest leakage stains, and the surface of his desk, he seemed to own very little. She hadn't noticed how empty it was before; Peter's presence had filled the void, making up for the lack of material possessions. Now, though, she was painfully aware of how badly off he was.

It was odd, Mary Jane reflected, how in such a traumatic time, her mind chose to latch on to something so trivial.

She pushed up off the protesting bed and went over to Peter's desk, picking up the topmost textbook and absently thumbing through it. She didn't know what she was looking for; just something, _anything _that might give her a clue to why this had happened. _If the police didn't find anything, how can I expect to succeed where they failed?_ The textbooks yielded no clue, nor did the half-finished homework sitting on his desk. Looking at it, she wondered dully if anyone would tell Peter's professors what had happened to him, so his grades wouldn't slip further. Did the police even care about things like that? She doubted it.

She set aside the last of the battered textbooks and looked around for the daily planner she knew Peter kept, but it was gone, for police perusal. His address book was missing, as well. Since he didn't exactly record his Spider-Man activities or have a Spider-Cave address, she didn't worry too much about what the police would be able to glean from the missing books. Still, this invasion of privacy, no matter how well intended, made her feel ill. Perhaps what she was doing was little better, but at least she was close to Peter. She began to rummage through Peter's desk drawers. The contents were disorganized, with papers on top and school supplies on the bottom – the result of the police search. She found several packets of photos; some a little thinner than others, either because he'd sold some of the photos to the _Bugle, _or the police had taken them. The negatives were all gone, too.

_I hope they don't find anything embarrassing in them, _she thought with a wry smile. The packet she currently held must have been two years old, at least, and featured her and Harry, with Peter sometimes posing with them. _I miss those days…_ Her smile faded. _Harry… _There was a suspect the police would never consider. Harry Osborn, son of Norman Osborn, blamed Spider-Man for his father's death, and had on at least one occasion, tried to kill him. And now, he knew Spider-Man's real identity. Harry had the motive, and the money, to hire a hit man. But would he do it? Maybe he hated Spider-Man, but Peter had been his best friend, the one who had helped Harry get the grades he needed to graduate. She refused to believe that Harry would cast aside those years of friendship just for revenge. Surely it would make him more hesitant to commit murder! Then again, she felt like she barely knew Harry anymore… he'd become so cold, so distant, since he'd taken over as OsCorp.

She replaced the photos and set her sights on Peter's dresser next. Shabby clothing, slightly stained but clean, was all she found in the drawers. The closet was completely empty, except for a shoe box. Also empty.

The cartons contained nothing of use, either. And, surprisingly, there were no loose boards that could contain an empty cavity for use as a hiding space – she would have thought this place would have been full of such things.

There was nothing here to give her any clues; or, if there had been, it had been seized by the police. She sat back on the bed and threw herself backwards, then grabbed one of Peter's pillows to cover her face as the first of the sobs broke free, and the tears began to stream down her cheeks.

She didn't know how long she'd spent sobbing, finally releasing all of her pent up sorrow; it felt like hours, but probably hadn't been more than ten minutes. When her sobs finally slowed, she pushed the pillow away from her face and slowly got up. There was a sink on one wall, and Mary Jane used it to clean up as best as possible. At least the water was clean… She then went to the mirror to see the damage; the dark rings around her eyes had been joined by red blotches. She smiled weakly, and noticed the expression did nothing to dispel the sorrow from her eyes.

Her eyes fell on the photos wedged in the frame, the distinctive four-frame photos from a photo booth, taken when she, Peter, and Harry had gone to a carnival two years previously. She'd given a set to Harry, and a set to Peter. They'd done the same; she still had her pictures of Peter and Harry in her photo album. She'd looked so happy, then… in those photos, the smile had reached her eyes, and she'd looked so happy, so carefree. Her attention turned to the ticket, and her hand brushed it. It was the performance he'd missed, and now she had a good idea why.

She looked to see what else Peter had placed on the mirror; she'd never investigated his little shrine this closely before. There were more pictures, an article that was a review of the opening night performance of _Earnest… _and a small folded piece of paper, hidden behind one of the photos. She slid it out, only mildly curious what it was. But when she unfolded it, her curiosity was piqued. This wasn't something that belonged on the mirror… She wasn't sure what it was – it looked like gibberish at first glance – but for it to be on the mirror, it had to be important.

It took her a moment to puzzle out what she was seeing; it had been written hastily in Peter's familiar chicken-scratch scrawl and was barely legible. It looked to be a string of digits interspersed with a few letters. She could make out the 00-ER that began the sequence, but she was having trouble reading the rest. She was tempted to crumple it up and chuck it out, but held back. If it wasn't important, would Peter have placed it with her photographs on the mirror? There was something about it, something that the police had missed.

Mary Jane examined the slip of paper again, frowning. She chewed her lip in thought as she struggled to make sense of it. A serial number? Password? An address? The more she thought about it, the more likely the last one seemed. It had more characters than most passwords, and she wasn't certain why a serial number would be concealed. As an address, it made no sense, but perhaps Peter had abbreviated the words, leaving a jumble of symbols that only had meaning to him.

It could be nothing, or it could be a lead. Mary Jane was tempted to call the police and leave an anonymous tip, but what if this location meant something to Spider-Man, rather than Peter Parker? What if it gave away his secret?

But what if this led her to the truth? It was certainly worth investigating…

To Be Continued…


	2. Private Investigator

Disclaimer: I don't own the characters; all are property of Marvel. No profit is being made from their use.

Author's Note: I'm glad you're all enjoying this. This is a different sort of story for me, and I hope that I can pull off a mystery. And I apologize for my slowness; I just wasn't able to write consistently until after that last college semester was finally over with. This semester shouldn't be so bad. I hope. I am, however, finding it _busy, _if not as challenging. Anyway, everyone's favorite eight-limbed villain finally puts in an appearance! I'm not satisfied with this chapter; I think I'm just too worn down from exams and the holidays and starting new classes to write properly. Hopefully, that won't last.

_**Shot in the Dark**_

_Two – Private Investigator_

Mary Jane stared sightlessly at the computer screen for several long minutes before her eyes finally made sense of the jumble of numbers displayed before her. She sucked her lower lip thoughtfully as she checked the numbers against the address scrawled in Peter's hasty hand on the slip of paper. _This is a possibility, _she thought, making note of it. She'd spent the past two hours in the public library with the computer database, trying to find a New York address that matched the one she'd found. It was proving easier said than done; she was uncertain exactly what some of the digits were. Peter's 'ones' and 'sevens' bore a striking resemblance to each other, and what she'd thought was a 'five' could have been an 's.'

She'd eventually realized that 'ER' stood for East River, which narrowed down the possibilities considerably. The meaning of the double zeroes, however, escaped her.

She rubbed her eyes and yawned; she felt as if she hadn't slept in weeks. But she knew that even if she allowed herself to lie down, she'd be haunted by the image of Peter's pale, broken form. Peter wouldn't give up because he was tired, and she wouldn't disappoint him by quitting now. It wasn't like she had anywhere else to be, after all; she'd called her director and told him what had happened, and her understudy was scheduled to take her place in _Earnest _until she felt she could resume her duties. Mary Jane didn't think she'd ever find the heart to act again… As for the hospital, she'd already dropped in on her way to the library. Peter's condition hadn't changed, even when she'd taken May's place at his side for an hour and held his clammy hand in her own. She felt guilty for abandoning him so soon, but she knew that if she stayed there much longer, with hospital's grim atmosphere crushing her spirit, she'd be overcome by just how helpless she truly was. She'd break down and cry, scream out her anguish, rant at the unfairness of the world for taking Peter. She'd be doing Peter no good by losing her frail grasp on her sanity. No, it was better that she was here, taking steps to help Peter in ways the police could not.

Or so she told herself. She just had trouble making herself believe it.

Finally, she finished sorting through the addresses, and had narrowed it down to the three likeliest possibilities. None of them were in parts of the city she felt safe in exploring alone. _What am I going to do now? _she wondered, staring down at the list, chewing a nail and ruining what had been an expensive manicure job. She didn't give a damn anymore. Could she give the addresses to Captain Stacy, and hope that he could do something with them? _I can't; I can't risk doing anything that could link Peter with Spider-Man! _She'd been considering another option, the hiring of a private investigator. But, unless she could find a PI who was utterly trustworthy, that would still lead to another person possibly stumbling upon Peter's secret identity.

She mulled it over as she left the library, her feet automatically taking her to her apartment without any guidance. The day was stifling hot without even the slightest breeze to stir the air. The morning news had spoken of an approaching storm front, but as yet, there was no sign of it. Not that Mary Jane was paying attention; she had little thought beyond getting home, and was dully surprised to find herself at her apartment door without any memory of getting there.

Absently, she dug her key from her purse and entered the small space she called her own, bypassing the small living room and heading straight towards the cramped bedroom. She tossed her purse aside and collapsed on her bed, staring up at the water-stained ceiling. She weighed the risks in her mind and grimaced; no matter what path she considered taking in this investigation, there was an element of danger. Mary Jane pulled the crumpled paper with the addresses from her pocket and looked it over, frowning. Could she do it herself? It was only noon; she'd be going out in broad daylight. She wouldn't get close enough to get in trouble; she just wanted to see if there was criminal activity. If there was, she could make an anonymous call to the police and tip them off.

Now that she had a possible course of action, Mary Jane was filled with a sense of purpose. She got to her feet and quickly changed into a pair of sturdy jeans and an old T-shirt, braided her hair and tucked it beneath a baseball cap, and dug out the seldom worn sneakers from her closet. She stopped before her bureau, reached out for the top drawer, then hesitated. Then, steeling her nerve, she drew the drawer open and pushed aside the undergarments that covered the plastic case lying on the bottom. With trembling fingers, she pulled out the case, set it on the bed, and opened it.

New York was a dangerous city for a young woman living on her own. For the girlfriend of Spider-Man, it was even more so. Not only had she been nearly mugged and raped on more than one occasion, but she'd been kidnapped by _two _super-villains. The bruises hadn't yet faded from her encounter with Dr. Octopus the day she'd decided to purchase the gun nestled in the foam padding.

Mary Jane ran her fingers along the cold metal barrel before they came to rest on the textured grip. She gently pulled it free from the padding, feeling its heavy weight in her hand. Despite the time she'd spent at the firing range – she knew the gun would be more of a danger to _herself_ if she didn't know how to use it – she still didn't feel comfortable with it. She'd owned it for several months, but she'd never had the nerve to take it anywhere besides the firing range. She hadn't felt the need to; she'd known that Peter was out there, watching over her.

But he wasn't watching over her now. Now, she'd have to protect herself while she took a turn watching over him. With only the slightest trembling of her fingers, Mary Jane checked the safety, then slid the full clip into the butt of the gun. All the while, she prayed that she wouldn't have to use it. She slipped the gun into her purse with her cell phone and slung the strap over her shoulder. The gun seemed to be disproportionately heavy, pulling at her shoulder, threatening to drag her down. Mary Jane held herself straight in defiance, refusing to be unnerved by the weapon's presence. Not now, when she needed her wits about her. She took a deep breath, then left her apartment without glancing back.

If she had looked backwards, she'd feel that she was taking one last look at something she'd never see again.

XXX

The first address was the easiest to reach. There was a bus stop four blocks from the location, and Mary Jane stepped off onto a street lined with foreign-food grocery stores that looked as if they'd never been visited by a health inspector. The people walking along the streets looked harmless enough, but with her new paranoid view of the world, Mary Jane found it hard to tell friend from foe. She took a moment to brace herself before setting off, her hand on her purse. She could feel the gun beneath her hand, and suddenly found it a calming presence.

She was tense the entire walk to the dockside warehouse, wary of the people around her, knowing that the person who'd attacked Peter could be here. A part of her wanted to whirl around and run, back to her apartment where she was safe, back to Peter, who needed her, back somewhere that wasn't here. But she suppressed the instinct and made it to the fence that surrounded the warehouse. And froze.

The files she'd drawn her data from had said the warehouse had been boarded up and abandoned, but the information was clearly out of date. The building was little more than rubble now; nothing larger than a rat would be able to live in the piles of rotted wood that hadn't been cleared away. Judging from the condition of the ruts in the earth, the demolition had happened some time ago – if anything criminal had happened here, any evidence would have been long gone. _One down… _It wasn't any comfort to Mary Jane; the other two addresses were in remote locations, and would be far more difficult to investigate.

She caught a taxi to the second location, which proved to be much more promising. As the taxi pulled up, the driver glanced back. "Are you sure this is the correct address, miss?" the man asked with a thick Indian accent.

Mary Jane gave him a weak smile. "Yes," she said, her voice slightly high and breathless with nervousness. The driver eyed her worriedly. She swallowed her fear and said, "This shouldn't take too long; could you come back in half an hour or so?" She dug in her wallet for payment; asking him to wait for her and paying him when she returned would have been more than her already strained resources could handle.

Still, watching the cab drive off, leaving her standing alone in front of a chain link fence, she felt her hear plummet. She wanted to run after the cab, climb in, order the driver to take her back to safety…

…except that the world wasn't safe anymore, not without Peter.

She squared her shoulders and turned her back on the receding taxi. She tipped her head back and examined the barrier that was now all that lay between her and her destination.

The chain link fence was higher than she'd expected, but Mary Jane walked up to it determinedly. The three barbed wire strands at the top gave her pause, however, and she began to walk along the perimeter, seeking a gap. Considering the poor shape of the buildings she could see beyond the fence, there was sure to be some place where the fence was ill-tended, as well. Or at least some place where some criminal or vandal had prised the links apart.

What she found instead, after rounding the first bend in the fence, was a gap in the barbed wire strands, where they'd been sliced through and neatly twisted to the side. She frowned, wondering why someone would cut a gap so high up, rather than in the gap itself. Mary Jane considered it carefully. Should she attempt the climb, or keep looking for a more convenient way in?

She followed the fence a little further, but when no further way in presented itself, she doubled back until she again stood beneath the severed barbed wire strands. Taking a deep breath, and finding herself suddenly very aware that she hadn't had a gym class since she'd graduated, Mary Jane clambered up the side of the fence, trying not to let its unsteady swaying unnerve her. This was nothing like climbing a rope in gym… She blessed her foresight at wearing sneakers and jeans instead of her normal attire. The gun, however, seemed to be weighing her down, threatening to unbalance her and send her toppling off the fence. She brushed the thought aside, knowing it was a stupid, irrational fear. She made it to the top of the fence without incident and straddled it, ready to shift around so she could climb down the other side, uncomfortably aware of the barbed curls of wire that were ready to snag her hair and clothing. She took a deep breath, threw her leg over the wire, and descended more quickly than she had climbed. She dropped the last few feet, sighing in relief as she came into contact with solid ground.

Mary Jane pulled the paper from her pocked again, despite knowing the addresses by heart. Anything to delay the inevitable… The warehouse she needed was at the far end of the abandoned complex, the only building that looked structurally sound enough to hide in. She did peek in the grime-covered windows of other buildings she passed, but all of them looked empty. _I'll give them a more thorough look-over on my way out. _She jogged over to the warehouse, trying to keep inconspicuous and feeling as if there were eyes everywhere, watching, waiting, ready to pounce… She kept her hand inside her purse, fingers wrapped around the gun's grip.

The warehouse that dominated the complex was a ramshackle building, clearly abandoned for decades. The wood had faded to grey in the elements, mottled with black where boards had fallen away, exposing the dark interior. However, the boards that covered the windows looked newer. Mary Jane tightened her grip on the gun as crept around the back, looking for a gap in the wooden slats that would give her a better peek into the building's interior – or let her inside. Her skin felt as though it wanted to crawl off her body and slink away, and she wanted to give in to that impulse. But something told her that she had hit the jackpot, that this was the right place.

She'd never before wanted so badly to be wrong.

Around the back, on the river front, the building wasn't quite as well kept up. The windows hadn't been boarded up, and the wood was warped and rotted from exposure to the elements. Mary Jane stood on tiptoe to peer through one window, found it too high for her, and glanced around until she found a broken chunk of wood that was thick enough to give her enough height. She dragged it beneath the window and peered in sighed, lips twisting into a snarl of frustration as all she saw through the dirt-crusted window were vague, shadowy shapes. _Looks like I have to go inside, _she thought, suppressing a shudder. _This is for Peter, _she told herself as her nerves threatened to overwhelm her. _Considering all he's done for you, this is the least you can do. _She sucked in a deep breath, exhaling slowly, mentally readying herself. Unsuccessfully; the relaxation techniques she used to calm herself before going on stage just didn't seem to be quite so effective in situations like this.

Locating a loose board that could be pushed aside to create a gap wide enough for her to enter took only a few minutes. She squeezed through, momentarily panicking when her shirt caught on a splintered edge of wood, and visions of gun-wielding maniacs with vicious leers twisting their faces flashed through her mind. She choked back a weak laugh, one that would have become hysterical had she let it loose, when she realized what held her.

And then she was inside. She slowly straightened as her eyes adjusted, ears straining for any sound. She was in a small room, what appeared to be one of the business offices judging from the remains of the desk rotting beneath the window and the rusted filing cabinet off in the corner. A heavy layer of dust and detritus coated the floor, undisturbed. Mary Jane covered her nose, not wanting to sneeze as her movements kicked up dust that swirled around her in motes and clung to her nostrils. She crossed the room to the door, trying the knob and finding it unlocked. Before opening the door, she pressed her ear to the splintered wood, listening. Nothing.

The door opened with a creak, and Mary Jane froze, poised for flight. But when no one came to investigate, she slipped into the short hall. There were three other doors, probably offices similar to the one she'd just left. The light slipping through the cracks in the roof wasn't enough to illuminate the hall; she had no way of knowing if the corridor was well-traversed or not. She debated checking the other offices, then, remembering the squeal the door had given, decided to head straight to the warehouse's main floor. She stayed in the shadows, creeping slowly forward until the hall opened out. Here, there was enough light coming through the river-side windows and the broken boards for her to get a clear look at the empty space – which wasn't quite so empty.

_Someone _had been here, and recently, too. The rubble had been carefully swept to one side of the room, and the patina of dust wasn't thick enough to have been there for long. Crumpled wrappers and empty cans littered the floor, and a pile of blankets atop a dirty mattress was shoved into one corner. Mary Jane would have taken it for the shelter of one of the city's many homeless if it wasn't for the worktable that dominated the middle of the room. Made of two mismatched wooden doors set end to end on stacked cinderblocks, the makeshift table was a striking contrast to what was on the table. Wires, circuit boards, unidentifiable electronics and delicate tools were strewn across the pitted surface in a disorderly ordered fashion. A high-tech laptop was set atop the end of the table, the screensaver a field of moving stars that hypnotized the eyes.

Whoever lived here, it wasn't a homeless person. And chances were that the laptop and the electronic materials hadn't been acquired legally, either. Mary Jane had seen enough; it was time to get out of there and call the police anonymously. Her eyes still on the open space, alert for any sign that she wasn't alone, she took a step backward… into something warm and solid that immediately closed strong arms around her. One wrapped around her chest, pinning her arms in place. The second clasped its hand over her mouth, positioning two fingers under her jaw to keep her from opening her mouth to bite her captor's hand. Her thoughts went to the gun digging into her side, out of reach and completely useless in this situation, and she wanted to scream. She should never have let her hand fall away from it… She struggled in his grip, but he held her like a vise. She was trapped, helpless, hopeless… a tear escaped, streaming down her cheek.

Her captor shifted his grip, pulling her closer. She could feel his heart beating behind her. He was tall, then; her head came only up to his chest. He was also, she realized with growing panic, partly naked. The skin of his chest was bare. There was only a single barrier of cloth between them, and it would be a barrier he could quickly overcome, should he decide he wanted to rape her.

From somewhere above her, a low voice hissed, "Are you here alone?"

She knew she should have lied, but fear made her thoughts sluggish, and she found herself nodding before she could stop herself.

"Does anyone know you're here?"

Again, she acted before she thought, and shook her head. _Someone will miss me! _she wanted to scream at her captor. _Someone will figure out where I've gone! _It was a faint hope, at best. It would take time before someone realized she was gone, and even if the police found the slip of paper Peter had jotted the address down upon and formed their own guesses as to what it said, it could take time for them to search every possibility. She would be long dead before they found her, and this man long gone. Another tear won its way free.

"I'm going to take my hand away from your mouth," the man said. His warm breath brushed her ear, and she flinched. "You can scream all you'd like; there's no one around to hear you." Mary Jane doubted she could force a scream around the lump that had formed in her throat. "I'm going to ask you a few questions, and you're going to answer them, understand?" Mary Jane nodded. He pulled his hand away, and Mary Jane drew in a trembling breath.

A soft sound, a metallic clicking, tugged at the edge of her awareness, but she was too terrified to think about why the sound seemed so familiar. "Now," the man's rasping voice whispered into her ear. "Why are you here?"

Mary Jane opened her mouth, but couldn't seem to form anything coherent. She wanted to say something defiant, to show that she wasn't afraid of this man and his threats. She'd done it before… but then, deep down, she'd known that Spider-Man was coming to save her, and that if she could keep her abductor talking, she'd buy the hero some time.

This time, though, Spider-Man wasn't coming to her rescue, and the possibility of death was suddenly all too real. She couldn't get the bold words to come; terror made them die in her throat.

The metal clicks sounded again, closer this time. The man grunted, then asked more forcefully, "Tell me; _why_ are you here?" Her captor's free hand gripped her shoulder, and his fingers bit painfully into her flesh. A whimper escaped her. Her eyes darted around, searching for inspiration. There had to be something she could say or do to prolong the inevitable…

What did arrest her attention was something unexpected: her captor's shadow. The sun had broken through the cloud cover, and the gaps between the slats of wood behind them were letting slanted beams of light through, casting a lengthening shadow across the rotted wooden floor at their feet. The combined bulk of herself and her captor was what she would have expected, but the four long, curving shapes, resembling the clawed fingers of some monstrous hand originating from somewhere behind them sent chills down her spine. Now she knew why the metallic hissing noises sounded so horrifyingly familiar.

And suddenly, she knew that this was the correct address. The double zeros that had puzzled her during her investigation hadn't been zeros at all, but the letter 'O'. They were the initials of the man standing behind her. Her knees suddenly felt like they were made of water, and she sagged against her captor. This was worse than she could have imagined… "Oh, God… It's you," she whispered, her voice tight with fear. Behind her, the man tensed.

He pushed her away, maintaining his grip on her as he held her at arm's length. He frowned, staring at her as if he knew he'd seen her before, but wasn't quite certain where. Before she could react, he reached out and snatched her baseball cap from her head to take a better look at her, freeing her braid to fall down her back. It seemed to be the clue he needed.

"The redhead," he said, realization dawning on his features. "Parker's girl. The one I-" He broke off abruptly, and his brow furrowed. "What are you doing here?" His grip on her loosened, but he didn't release her. As if to show he hadn't completely relaxed his defenses should she try to escape, two of the tentacles hovering in the air behind her turned toward her, their pincer heads blossoming open like deadly flowers to reveal scarlet lights, uncannily like unblinking, watchful eyes.

She quailed beneath the unwavering gazes of machine and man, but she had to know the truth, even if it was the last thing she'd ever know. "Was it you?" Mary Jane whispered. "Did you hurt Peter?"

"Hurt Peter?" Octavius repeated. There was a note of puzzlement in his gruff voice. "What happened to Peter?" When Mary Jane didn't immediately answer, the scientist's face hardened. "Tell me," Octavius rasped. Mary Jane had little choice, and the story poured out of her.

Octavius listened to her narrative, his face disclosing no expression. When she finished, he remained silent, his gaze inscrutable. She wished he'd show some reaction to what she'd said; his emotionless demeanor was unnerving. There was no indicator of the man's mental state. He brooded over what she'd told him for so long, she'd begun to think he'd forgotten she was there. It would have been the perfect opportunity to flee – if the smoldering red glow from two of the tentacles hadn't been fixed upon her. Perhaps she could have outrun the distracted doctor, but there was no way she could escape the reach of his tentacles. When Octavius finally spoke, it startled her. Her flinch backward caused a shudder to run through the length of the sentry tentacles, but they made no move to seize her. "I'm sorry," Octavius said. "I'm sorry about what happened to Peter. He doesn't deserve this," Octavius said. His low voice sounded genuinely regretful.

"You… didn't…?" Mary Jane couldn't make herself finish the query.

"I had nothing to do with the attack," he said sharply. "Peter… _saved_ me from myself. I owe him my life. Attempted murder would be a poor way of saying thank you."

Mary Jane felt the first stirrings of hope within her. She didn't trust the man who had abducted her and would have let her die along with half the city, but she'd been there when Peter had talked him out of letting the experiment run its course. She'd seen, with her own eyes, Octavius sink the machine in the river – at what she'd thought had been the cost of his own life. Peter had told her that Dr. Octavius had once been a good man; perhaps he hadn't slid back into his criminal lifestyle.

After all, the _Bugle _had been quiet on the subject of Octavius. Had there been even the slightest rumor of criminal activities involving Dr. Octopus, the _Bugle _would have been all over the story. _Perhaps I'll get out of this alive, after all. But that doesn't explain – _"Why would Peter have your address, if he didn't expect some sort of retribution from you?" she asked, shocked by her own boldness. "He obviously felt he needed to keep an eye on you."

To her surprise, she was answered by a soft, if a little strained, chuckle. "Peter _was _keeping an eye on me to make certain I was all right, after he pulled me out of the river that night," he said. "And to see that I didn't fall back into my criminal ways, though he was too polite to phrase it that way."

And Peter hadn't told her. She felt a momentary flash of anger that he hadn't her he was helping one of his foes, but then realized Peter had only been trying to protect her. If he'd told her _everything _he'd ever done that had been dangerous, she would have driven herself mad with worry. _But, if he _had _told me more, I'd have more to go on than speculation. _

At last, Octavius released his grip on her arm, and Mary Jane pulled away. The tentacles went very still, reminding her of a cat ready to pounce. "You were foolish to come here," he told her, dashing her hopes that maybe he'd just let her leave. She considered the odds that she could get her hands on the gun before the tentacles struck, and realized they weren't good. Then Octavius continued, "You won't be doing Peter any good if you get hurt, or killed. Leave this to the police, Miss Watson."

"I can't," she said softly. "I can't just sit back and watch Peter suffer, and do nothing about it. And the police… they don't know Peter's Spider-Man. There's so much that they could miss because of that. Someone has to investigate, someone who _knows_. Peter has probably saved my life more times that I'm aware of, and now it's my turn to do the same for him. I _owe _it to him."

She couldn't read the rogue scientist's expression, but she thought something she'd said had struck a chord with him. "Get out of here, Miss Watson," he said.

She stared. "You're letting me go?" she asked, wincing internally when she realized it might not be best to question her luck.

"I trust I don't need to tell you about the consequences if you tell anyone I'm here?" Octavius asked, and the tentacles lashed through the air in emphasis. Mary Jane merely nodded wordlessly. "Good. I'd hate to have to destroy Peter's only chance for justice." She couldn't decide if his tone was threatening, or mocking. She took a step back, half expecting his hand – or worse – to take her arm in that vise-like grip again. Or her neck…

"You don't have to be cautious on your way out. You'll be perfectly safe," Octavius continued gruffly. "I'm the only one around here." He gave her a chilling smile. "It seems even the criminal element wants to give me wide berth." Mary Jane continued backing away, her eyes fastened on the tentacles weaving serpentine patterns behind their host. They hadn't taken their 'eyes' off of her for moment. Maybe he was right, and there weren't any potential muggers/rapists/whatever waiting for her outside the warehouse – but she couldn't make herself turn her back on the far more dangerous man standing before her.

And then her nerve broke and she took flight, whirling and sprinting to exit. She heard the clicks and whirs of the tentacles behind her, but the expected blows didn't fall. She made it through the doorway of the abandoned office, through the gap in the timbers, and ran full out through the warehouse complex, not slowing until she reached the fence.

A gloom had descended over New York by the time Mary Jane slipped over the fence, a blanket of ominous black clouds that heralded the coming of a storm. Beneath the ever-present city effluvia was the scent of ozone, and the still air was at last being stirred by a steadily blowing breeze coming off the river. Mary Jane glanced warily from side to side, but it seemed Dr. Octavius had been correct in that he was alone in the abandoned district. Still, she didn't want to linger, and she sprinted in the direction she vaguely recalled the taxi arriving from. She had no hope of catching the driver who'd brought her; it was long past the half hour mark. She dug out her cell phone, shuddering as her fingers brushed the cold metal barrel of the gun, and called the cab company for a taxi, imploring them to hurry. She didn't want to be stuck out here any longer than she had to. Who knew how long Dr. Octavius' good will would last?

The taxi arrived before the expected cold metal tentacles could clamp down upon her and squeeze the life from her, and Mary Jane slid onto the worn leather back seat gratefully. She was about the give the driver her address, then changed her mind and had him drive her to Midtown Hospital. May Parker wasn't around when Mary Jane entered Peter's room; one of the nurses must have finally talked the elderly woman into going home and getting some rest.

She spent the next few hours at Peter's side, watching the shallow rise and fall of his chest. He was still far too pale, and the doctor she'd spoken to before entering had told her Peter had shown no sign of waking from his coma. Nor had his condition worsened, which was small comfort. She'd searched the doctor's face, looking for any sign that he was concealing something from her. Not concerning Peter's health, but about the anomalies in Peter's physiology that made him Spider-Man. If the doctor had noticed anything, however, she saw no indication of it.

When her eyelids threatened to grow too heavy to keep open much longer, Mary Jane stood, releasing the limp white hand she'd held cradled in her own and standing, stretching to ease the kinks in her spine. "I'll be back tomorrow," she whispered into Peter's ear. Her breath stirred his hair, the only response to her comment. She gave tremulous smiles to the nurses she passed who gave her their sympathies, and plodded through the lobby and through the doors, into the drenching sheets of rain that had begun to fall during her silent vigil. She barely noticed as she was instantly soaked to the bone, too lost in her sorrow to give the rain more than a passing thought.

Her disconnectedness remained until she entered her apartment. Her hand was reaching towards the light switch when a flash of lighting painted her apartment in sharp relief. She froze as the world went back to semi darkness around her. In that brief moment when her apartment had been lit as bright as day, she'd seen a large, dark shape standing beside an open window. Had Peter's killer come for her next?

The dark shape shifted position as it came aware of her presence. Another flash of lightning illuminated his features, and Mary Jane gasped. _Octavius. _The tentacles weren't visible, probably hidden within the confines of his coat, but there was no mistaking that grim countenance. Had he changed his mind and come to kill her after all? She almost turned and fled, but there'd been something about the expression on his face that caught her, and she found herself taking a step forward, and then another.

Water ran in rivulets down his shadowed face and frayed coat, pooling on the carpeted floor around his muddy boots. At her approach, he angled his face to meet hers, and she met the dark pools of his eyes. He made no move, as though he was making an effort not to frighten her. The tentacles remained concealed.

"What… what are you doing here?" Mary Jane finally managed. Her voice was several octaves higher than normal.

Octavius regarded her with dark, melancholy eyes for a long moment before announcing, "I'll do it."

"Do what?" she asked, her voice cracking.

"You said you needed someone to investigate the attack on Peter, someone who knows his secret. I'll do it. You have yourself a detective."

To Be Continued…

The encounter between MJ and Otto still doesn't feel right to me, despite agonizing over it for several weeks. I'm not at my 'writing best' at the moment, and I apologize profusely. Maybe I'll go back later and fix it, if I ever get over whatever creative funk I seem to be in. Writer's Block _sucks._


	3. Uneasy Partnership

Disclaimer: All Spider-Man characters belong to Marvel. No profit is being made from their use.

Author's Note: Thanks to everyone who has been so patient with me. I just haven't been able to write lately, which couldn't have come at a worse time, considering the amount of papers I've had to write the last couple of semesters. And a rather impromptu trip didn't help matters (though it did help relax me, which I desperately needed). Fun, fun, fun… I can handle it, but I truly think I may lose my mind in the process. Ah, well. Insanity might actually help my writing. I'm sorry this is shorter than my other chapters; I know you were expecting more after such a long wait. I'm struggling to recall what I had planned next, and I can't seem to remember at the moment, which is going to make writing this story _fun. _At least I remember who did it. Also, I apologize to those of you who want more from Otto's POV; the story doesn't require it just yet.

_**Shot in the Dark**_

_Three – Uneasy Partnership_

The young woman hadn't moved, hadn't even released the breath she'd been holding, for long seconds after Otto made his declaration. Otto feared he may have pushed Mary Jane Watson's already frayed nerves to the breaking point, and he held himself very still, attempting to seem as non-threatening as possible. But even without the actuators looming over him, she seemed to find him a terrifying sight; her posture was that of a frightened rabbit, torn between remaining frozen in the hope of being overlooked, or fleeing.

Not that he could blame her. After all, he'd tried to kill her.

Finally, he heard her draw in a tremulous breath, and she asked in a wavering voice, "Why? Why would you do this?"

_Why? _It was a question he'd asked himself repeatedly as he'd shadowed Mary Jane across the city. "For the same reason that you're doing this," Otto said quietly. "I owe Peter my life." His admission seemed to break the spell upon her. He saw her relax, though there was still an aura of tension to her. Not that he blamed her; he'd be worried if she dropped her guard completely around him.

Now that they'd established that death wasn't imminent, Mary Jane didn't seem to know what to do with her uninvited guest, and, truthfully, Otto didn't know what to do, either. Standing by the window and dripping water onto the carpet didn't seem very productive, and Otto shifted uncertainly.

Mary Jane responded to his discomfiture by asking, "Um, can I get you anything? Coffee, maybe?" Otto smiled in the darkness; she didn't know quite what to do, either.

"Coffee would be great, thanks," he said. "I take it black." The exchange was so… ordinary that it almost made him laugh. When was the last time his life had been ordinary?

"Have a seat," she said, pointing to the couch, and Otto complied. He winced when he realized he was going to be dripping water all over the cushions, but Mary Jane didn't seem to mind. He heard her rattling around in the kitchen, perhaps a little louder than was necessary. Her acting abilities may have been stretched to the limits to hide her fear, but she seemed to have no control over her coordination.

After a few minutes, Mary Jane came back into the living room, handing him one of the two mugs of coffee she carried. She then took a seat in the chair furthest across the room from Otto. From the way she sat on the edge of the seat, he knew she was aware that she wasn't out of reach of his actuators. He took a sip of his coffee and grimaced, but didn't comment. "I'd like to get started on my investigation as soon as possible, with your cooperation."

Mary Jane nodded. He could see her hand shaking, threatening to slosh the coffee over the cup's rim. Luckily, it was tepid, or she could have been burned.

"Maybe you could start by telling me everything you know about the police investigation so far," Otto suggested.

Mary Jane quickly repeated everything that Captain Stacy had told her, and Otto listened without interruption. _Definitely not a random attack, _he thought. _And if the shooter was using a sniper rifle, then he sounds like… _"A hired assassin," Otto said. "This definitely doesn't sound like your common thug." Otto got to his feet, and Mary Jane scrambled to hers in response.

"Where are you going?" she asked.

"I thought I'd investigate the site of the shooting," he told her.

"Now?"

"I can't exactly do it in broad daylight, now can I?" Otto pointed out. Mary Jane gave him a weak grin in response. "But I'm going to need you to accompany me." He saw the flash of fear in her eyes, quickly quelled. "I'm going to need you to show me where," he explained.

"All right," Mary Jane said. "Just… let me get my coat."

XXX

The rain had let up by the time they left Mary Jane's apartment.

The storm had driven most people indoors, but Mary Jane still felt like all eyes were on her and the wanted criminal that walked at her side. With the actuators concealed beneath his heavy coat and his hat pulled low over his face, he didn't look like the evil Doctor Octopus – but there was still a sinister quality to her companion that she was certain was attracting attention.

Her steps quickened in her eagerness to get this over with. Even though she knew Otto could have killed her any time since she found his lair, she still couldn't dispel the feeling that once her back was turned, one of the actuators would dart forward, wrap around her waist, and squeeze the breath from her lungs. If Otto noticed her increased pace and guessed its cause, he didn't comment.

They were quiet all the way to the site of Peter's attack, a silence which remained unbroken until after Otto examined the bullet-torn brick wall of the building.

"They knew."

The certainty in his voice made Mary Jane's head snap upwards in surprise. "You're sure?"

Otto nodded. "Look at the pattern of bullet holes; they go up the side of the building, past the first floor, and are spread out. Either the shooter had extremely bad aim, or Peter was attempting to gain height to escape – and no normal human would be able to leap that high."

"Perhaps the shooter didn't realize that Peter-" Mary Jane glanced around to make sure there was no one to overhear – "wasn't normal until then," she pointed out.

"Possible," Otto conceded the point, "but I would think realizing the target had super powers would give an assassin pause, no matter how well-trained. But our shooter didn't hesitate; if he had, even for a second, Peter would have been able to escape."

He was right; Peter had lightning-fast reflexes. Had there been a cease-fire, even for a split second, Peter would have taken advantage of it. Unless the shooter was obscenely lucky, or had unnatural talents of his own, there was no way he could have brought down Peter without careful planning. Whoever it was had known what Peter was, and worse: the shooter had known Peter's plans, had known he'd have to walk down this very street to reach the restaurant. Mary Jane shivered; someone had been observing them, and perhaps even now was watching Mary Jane, intending to take out everyone that Peter loved…

As if guessing the nature of her thoughts, Otto said, "Come on. We shouldn't linger here much longer. We've seen all there is to see here." At first, she thought she'd been included in that 'we,' then she saw the hem of his coat ripple and realized that at least one of the actuators had been peeking out, scanning and recording data. They were probably better than any technology the police had access to.

Otto turned, gesturing towards a building across the street. "The bullets went straight into the brick, not from an angle. So, from the trajectory of the bullets, we predict that the shooter was perched on the roof of that building." His gaze swept the streets, looking for any late-night stragglers. Satisfied that no one was near enough to see, he led her across the street to the alley that gaped beside the building. Ducking into the sheltering darkness, he asked Mary Jane, "Shall we investigate?"

Mary Jane swallowed as she realized what he was suggesting, and her mind went back to the day this man had abducted her. She could only vaguely remember their flight through the city, a roller coaster ride that had left disoriented and nauseous. Otto saw the look on her face. "We'll just go straight up and down; it won't hurt, I promise." Mary Jane wanted to believe him… he was here helping her find who had attacked Peter, after all, but the memory of that cold metal biting painfully into her skin as they defied gravity still haunted her. "If you'd prefer to stay down here, I understand," Otto finally said.

Mary Jane just nodded. She wasn't ready to trust the actuators just yet, even if Otto was on his best behavior. With a last glance to make certain no one had moved into the vicinity while they'd spoken, Otto let the actuators snake out of the tears in his coat, and quickly scaled the side of the building, keeping the noise to a minimum but still sounding thunderous in the narrow alley. She waited for what felt like a long time, but must have only been a few moments, before Otto came back down. "Nothing," he said. "The police already went over it with a fine-toothed comb; if the shooter left any evidence – doubtful, if it was a professional assassin – then the police have it all."

"Damn," Mary Jane muttered. She'd been hoping Otto would pick up _something… _"I spoke to Captain Stacy yesterday, and he didn't say anything about having any leads." So there probably hadn't been anything useful on the rooftop. Otto was right – it probably was a professional.

"How many people know?" Otto asked as they exited the alley. "About Peter, I mean."

"Not many," Mary Jane said. "You, me, Harry Osborn…" her voice trailed off as a thought occurred to her. "The train," she whispered. Otto jerked his head towards her, waiting for her to explain. "When… when you attacked the train, Peter lost his mask. There weren't any people there who knew Peter by sight, but…"

"But if any of them were to give a description, someone might figure it out," Otto finished. He sighed, kneading his right temple wearily. "The passengers probably all gave statements to the police, so their names would be on file somewhere. Unfortunately, I don't have access to those files – and I doubt the passengers would want to speak to me, anyway." He flashed Mary Jane a ghost of a smile as he guessed the direction of her thoughts. "You could ask them, see if anyone might have talked, but there's no guarantee they'd be willing to talk to you. Still, it's something we can't afford to ignore. I'll have to find a way to get those files…" Otto's look became distant, as though he were thinking over the problem – or discussing it with internal voices. Mary Jane decided not to ask.

"We'll worry about that later," Otto said. "For now, there is someone I can question, someone who has a strong motive to take out Spider-Man." Mary Jane frowned, not wanting to point out that there were a lot of criminals who fit that description. "Who do we know who had both the money and the motive to hire a professional hit man? One who knows Peter's secret?"

Her thoughts had been intentionally shying away from the logical conclusion, refusing to believe someone she'd known so long to be capable of such an atrocity. "Oh…" Mary Jane moaned. "Oh, _Harry…"_

XXX

Harry Osborn needed a drink. This was becoming a common condition for him, this desire for the oblivion provided by alcohol. It was his only escape from a reality that threatened to drag him down and utterly destroy him. OsCorp was falling apart, his investments were proving to be lemons, his family fortune was dwindling – though, thankfully, he had a long way to go before he'd be forced to declare bankruptcy. In short, he'd brought shame upon the Osborn family name. His father's name.

Harry wished his father was there now. He'd been right; Harry was weak, worthless, unworthy of the name Osborn.

As soon as his butler whisked away his hastily shucked coat, Harry hurried to his father's den, anxious to drown his worries in that bottle of scotch he'd been dreaming of all through that evening's board meeting. That would take the edge off his newest crisis. He smiled in anticipation as he entered the den, flipped on the light… and stopped dead.

Someone had beaten him to his scotch.

"Hello, Harry," the familiar voice purred. Harry knew the sensible thing to do would be to whirl around and run away, but his legs no longer obeyed his commands. Instead, he could only gawp at the man seated in his father's chair, battered army boots resting on the desk. His hands were busy with the bottle of scotch and a glass – but he had four others that weren't occupied.

"No…you're dead." Not what Harry had wanted to say, and probably not the brightest thing to tell Dr. Otto Octavius. Bargaining for his life would've been a much better start.

Otto just smiled. The actuators, which had been weaving lazy arcs in the air, snapped to attention, and Harry cowered beneath their smoldering gaze. _Run. Run now. You're almost at the limit of their range; you could get out of here before they react… _His legs still stubbornly refused to budge. "There's a quote I could respond with," Otto said lazily. "'Reports of my death' and all that, but it's a bit cliché, don't you think?"

Harry couldn't think of an answer to this. How did one converse with a mad man? Especially one that was better educated than he himself was? "Suffice it to say," Otto continued, sliding his feet from the desk as he leaned forward, "I _am _alive, and we need to talk."

Harry's heart hammered in his chest. "If you're here because I told Peter where you were hiding, I had to do it. I couldn't let you kill Mary Jane. If its revenge you're here for…" _then kill me now; make it quick. End my troubles._

Otto cut him off with a jerk of his hand, which one of the actuators mimicked for emphasis. "That's not why I'm here." One of the actuators lifted a glass from the mini-bar and set it in front of Otto. The scientist poured a glass and offered it to Harry, who hesitantly stepped forward to take it. After all, if Otto wanted to kill him, he probably would have done it by now. Right? Harry took a seat across the desk from Otto and took a sip of the scotch. He was completely unprepared for Otto's next statement. "Tell me about the assassin, Harry."

Harry sputtered and jerked his head upward to meet Otto's hard gaze. "Assassin?" he repeated blankly.

The scientist's dark eyes narrowed. "Yes, assassin," he said. The genial tone of voice was gone, leaving steel in its place. "The one that put Peter Parker in a coma. The one that _knew _Parker was Spider-Man."

Harry stared, dumbstruck. "Peter's in a coma?" he repeated, feeling rather stupid.

"Cut the act," Otto said. "It's all over the papers – the _Daily Bugle _even offered up an award for whoever shot Peter." He gave a bitter smile. "Jameson thinks Spider-Man is responsible, and that his absence is proof of his guilt. But we know the truth, don't we?"

"I don't know what you're talking about," Harry protested.

"Don't you? Who was it who made a devil's bargain with me to kill Spider-Man?" Otto asked, arching an eyebrow. "Who blames him for Norman Osborn's death? I know you hate him, Harry. You have the means and the motive to hire an assassin."

"I didn't even know about this; I've been overseas for the past two weeks, talking to a couple of OsCorp stockholders who want to withdraw from the company." Harry's grip on the glass tightened until he was afraid it would burs into splinters in his hand. The meetings hadn't gone well; he'd only persuaded one to continue his support of OsCorp. The loss of the other two was a blow the foundering company didn't need. He hadn't even glanced at the newspapers, not wanting to see the reports of OsCorp's plunging stock prices.

Or to be reminded of the source of his problems, the vigilante whose photos were always smeared all over the papers as if to torment him.

"Convenient," Otto said, steepling his fingers in front of him. "But that doesn't absolve you of hiring someone to kill Peter."

"I'm not the one responsible," Harry said bitterly, taking another drink of the scotch.

"And why should I take your word for it?" Otto asked.

"Because I wouldn't have hired an assassin." The alcohol had loosened his tongue, otherwise Harry would never have confessed what he said next. "I would have killed Peter myself."

Otto sat back, clearly stunned. He mulled it over for a moment, then said gruffly, "I believe you." He stood, the actuators curling around him, their gaze never leaving Harry. Harry shuddered, remembering how fast the machines were, like striking snakes. He wondered dully if he should run now that Otto was done with him, but found he didn't really care anymore if Otto struck him down where he stood.

The scientist began to walk away, towards the open balcony doors. Harry began to realize that maybe he was going to survive this after all. He wondered at Otto's uncharacteristic behavior. "Why do you care?" Harry blurted out before he could stop himself. Otto stopped in the balcony doorway and turned, and Harry quailed beneath that cool gaze. "Why are you trying to help Peter?"

Otto turned back, but he tossed over his shoulder, "Because he helped me." And then he was over the edge of the balcony and was gone, the receding _booms _of the actuators marking his passage.

XXX

Mary Jane was still awake when Otto arrived back at her apartment. Otto was relieved; he hadn't wanted to wake her, but he didn't really want his news to keep until morning. "He didn't do it," Otto said in response to her questioning gaze.

"Really?" she asked. There was a mixture of relief and disappointment in her voice; obviously, she hadn't wanted Harry to be guilty, but she just wanted this all to be over with.

Otto just nodded, and Mary Jane sighed. Then her gaze snapped back up to meet his. "You didn't hurt him, did you?"

"No. We just had a little talk, that's all, with a little help from Harry's liquid courage. Alcohol," he clarified, when he saw Mary Jane's blank look.

"So, what's next?" she asked.

"It looks like we're going to have to do some old-fashioned detective work."

To be continued…

Wow. I was actually _nice _to Harry. Sort of. At least I didn't make him a whiny snot. Mark this day on your calendar, folks. It probably won't happy again any time soon.


	4. Old Fashioned Detective Work

Disclaimer: All characters are property of Marvel. No profit is being made from their use. Suing me would get you nothing.

Author's Note: Bet you're all shocked to see this so soon. Or 'soon,' anyway, when compared to the gap between chapters two and three. I got inspired, I guess. Don't expect consistence from me, though, or you'll be disappointed, especially since classes are going to resume soon. And I apologize for the typos that seem to be cropping up in my chapters lately; I've been doing most of my writing late at night when I'm too tired to catch misspellings, and I've been relying on Spell Check to find my errors. Apparently, this has not been a good thing. I'll try to be more careful in the future, though I know one or two will still slip through. This is a slower chapter, by the way, since not all aspects of detective work are exciting. It is, however, important, so bear with me. I apologize that I'm not the greatest when it comes to writing interrogations; dialogue isn't my forte, and I'd be useless when it comes to questioning witnesses. I also can't figure out why this story seems to be told mostly from MJ's point of view. It's not what I intended; that's just how things are working out. Don't worry; Otto's role will continue to increase. Promise.

_**Shot in the Dark**_

_Four – Old-Fashioned Detective Work_

_**She is here, Father. **_

Otto didn't look up at the sentry actuator's announcement, not wanting to break his concentration, but he did lift his hand in a casual wave. He hadn't been certain Mary Jane would follow through with their plans to meet up in his lair, and he was pleased she had come.

_**She is still carrying the gun.**_

He wasn't surprised. This was a dangerous neighborhood, and he was the deadliest resident. That she left the gun in her purse rather than carry it in spoke volumes about her trust in him. Maybe their partnership would work out well, after all. _She won't use it on me, _he assured them. At least, he didn't _think _she would.

_**We would not let her use it.**_

Mary Jane announced her presence by clearing her throat and saying archly, "You call that 'old - fashioned detective work?'"

Now Otto looked up from the laptop's monitor and grinned. "This is much easier than breaking in to the police station, locating their records room, searching for the correct files, and then getting out without hurting anyone."

Mary Jane blinked as what he was doing sank in. "You're hacking in to the police files?"

Otto nodded. "Thank goodness it's the age of the electronic filing system," he said. "The police have some rather ingenious protections around their files, but it's nothing that we," Otto gestured towards the upper left actuator, which was hooked up to one of the computer ports by a cable, "can't break into." Otto nodded towards a pile of papers on the table in front of him. "I've managed to get the reports on Peter's attack, and the statements from our battle on the train. I'm also going to find records for all the prisoners Peter had a hand in putting in prison – a truly massive undertaking," Otto sighed, massaging his temples. "Those are kept in the prison computers, and it's going to take awhile finding them all."

Mary Jane grabbed the papers and flipped through the statements from the train passengers, nose wrinkling as she realized just how much work would be involved. "I think I can narrow this down a little," she said. "Peter told me that when he lost his mask, he regained consciousness in the first car of the train, and that's… that's where you found him," she finished awkwardly. "I don't think anyone in the rest of the cars saw him."

"That _is _helpful," Otto said. "It should eliminate most of the names right off the bat." It would certainly make Mary Jane's job easier, anyway, since she was the one who was going to have to question these people.

"Did you figure anything out from the police reports?" Mary Jane asked. He could hear the frustration in her voice; she'd told him the previous night that she was going to talk to Captain Stacy after visiting Peter that morning, and he guessed the news hadn't been good.

"No." Mary Jane's face fell. "I have some theories, though, and tonight, I'm going to go out and start questioning the city's criminal element. I don't know if the assassin was contacted directly, or if someone put out word they were looking for a hit man, and if the latter is the case, I might be able to trace that back to whoever ordered the hit." Otto disconnected from the police mainframe and shut down the laptop. The actuator pulled the cord from the port, and it vanished down the hollow 'throat.' "Looks like we've both got our work cut out for us."

From the determined set to Mary Jane's chin, he knew she was up to it. "Are you going to have time for this?" Otto asked. "What about your job?"

"I'm on leave," Mary Jane said quietly. "My heart hasn't been in acting, not with Peter in a coma. I'm sure my understudy is elated to have the starring role."

Otto's lips thinned as he picked up on the most important nugget of information. "So there's no change in Peter's condition, then?"

Mary Jane's shoulders slumped. "No. He may heal faster than a normal person, but this is beyond what his abilities can handle. The doctors still give him a fifty-fifty chance of survival. And Aunt May doesn't look too good, either. She hasn't been eating or sleeping enough, and the doctors are worried about her." Then she straightened, a determined look on her face. "The sooner we find the shooter, the better." She held up the sheaf of papers that held the contact information for everyone who'd been on the train, as well as their statements and where they'd been seated at the time of the attack. "I'll get started on this right away."

Otto was surprised, but pleased with her willingness to dive straight in. Despite her determination, he'd expected to be doing most of the work himself. Perhaps their partnership would be a successful one, after all. She placed the notes in her purse and stood up. "I'll come back later this evening and let you know if I learn anything," she said.

He nodded and closed the laptop. "Good luck. And be _careful_," he said emphatically. "We could be dealing with someone very dangerous."

"You're dangerous, too," Mary Jane said bluntly.

"True. But even I couldn't bring down Spider-Man," Otto pointed out.

Mary Jane shuddered, and Otto found he could emphasize with the girl's fear. Whoever they were dealing with was dangerous, powerful… and probably wouldn't hesitate to eliminate anyone standing in his way.

XXX

After poring through the lists, Mary Jane narrowed it down to some two dozen people she needed to question. Of that group, two were from out of town, which would make contact more difficult. One passenger hadn't left contact information. Two more were children who had been riding with their mother – she wasn't sure what information they could provide, but she wasn't going to leave anyone out of her interrogations.

She devised a cover story that she hoped sounded plausible: she would claim to be a reporter for the _Daily Bugle _who was doing a human interest story about survivors of super-powered-being encounters. In keeping with the paper's negative bias towards Spider-Man, she'd try to undermine his heroics – oh, how it would hurt to do that to Peter! – and see how many of the passengers came to his defense, and how effusively they did it. She'd also keep her ears open for hints that others had asked similar questions; knowing that someone had been asking around and getting a description of that person could be valuable information.

She waited until it was nearly evening, when most people would be coming home from work. After fixing a pot of coffee to keep on hand, Mary Jane began making her calls.

The responses she received were varied, and mostly discouraging. Most of the rescued passengers were indignant that she would insult their hero, and a few of them even chewed her out for it. One caller had launched into a tirade liberally sprinkled with every possible variation of the F-word, and, white faced, Mary Jane had hung up on him. A few others had been more ambivalent regarding the incident, grateful Spider-Man had saved them but feeling he was indirectly responsible for the attack on the train in the first place. Mary Jane put a question mark next to these names. Some of them hung up as soon as Mary Jane introduced herself as a reporter, and Mary Jane resigned herself towards the possibility of having to question them in person. A couple of people didn't answer their phones.

Last on her list were Mrs. Laura Devine and her two young sons, Timothy and William. Mary Jane leaned back, nursing her coffee as she thought about how to handle them. After much debate, Mary Jane decided to visit Mrs. Devine and her two sons in person. She doubted their mother would allow a strange reporter to speak to them on the phone, and if she spoke to them in person, she might be able to persuade the woman that she was harmless. And children tended to say things that adults wouldn't dare.

She checked the time and saw it wasn't too late, not even six in the evening yet. She'd have time to visit their apartment before she was supposed to meet up with Otto. _Better to get this done now, _she thought, going to her room and getting changed.

The apartment where the family lived was across the city, and the bus seemed to move with agonizing slowness down the clogged streets. It gave her time to collect her thoughts. Her acting abilities weren't up to par, with all that was going on, but she had to hold herself together. It had been easier contacting people over the phone; they couldn't see her eyes well up with tears when she spoke badly of Peter.

Mrs. Devine answered at her knock. She was a mousy, middle-aged woman with a pleasant attitude that immediately put Mary Jane at ease. When Mary Jane told her that she was a reporter, however, the woman's expression became guarded.

"Have a seat," she said gruffly, gesturing towards her couch. Mary Jane did so, setting her duffel bag beside her and pulling out the legal pad she'd used to scribble her notes upon. "Would you like something to drink? Coffee? Water?"

"I'd like some water, thank you," Mary Jane said. Mrs. Devine went off to the kitchen, and Mary Jane glanced around. It was a small apartment, well-kept but a little shabby. _If someone paid her for information, she hasn't invested it into her household. _Mary Jane began to feel guilty for her subterfuge.

There was a days-old issue of the _Bugle _on the coffee table, the cover showing a picture of a smiling Peter next to one of his photos of Spider-Man. She felt her throat constrict at the painful reminder. _Worse, it now means that she – and every other passenger who's seen this – now has a name to go with his face! _She wondered if this was part of the reason for Mrs. Devine's attitude, knowing that Spider-Man was being wrongfully accused, and was actually the victim. Mary Jane picked up the paper and skimmed through the article, frowning at Jameson's anti-Spider-Man take on the shooting.

On the other hand, at least Jameson was taking this personally and forcing the city to pay attention to the shooting; most of the other papers buried the few and far-between updates behind endless articles about the upcoming mayoral election.

The sound of a glass impacting with the tabletop alerted Mary Jane to Mrs. Devine's presence. She picked up the glass and took a sip, smiling at her hostess in thanks. The woman didn't return it; she just sat in the battered easy chair set perpendicular to the couch. She was perched on the edge, as though ready to take flight if Mary Jane pushed her too far. "What do you want to know?" she asked at length.

"I just wanted to ask you a few questions about the battle between Spider-Man and Dr. Octopus aboard the train. Where are your children? They were on the train too, right?"

Mrs. Devine frowned. "They're out playing with friends."

"Do you know when they'll be back? I'd like to talk to them, too."

"I'd prefer to leave them out of this," Mrs. Devine said, her lips thin. Mary Jane noted the reaction; clearly, someone else had harassed her children about the subject.

"All right. I'm looking for details about your experience on the train." Rather than string the woman along, as she had the others she'd spoken to, Mary Jane decided to take the plunge. "Especially what happened afterwards. I heard that Spider-Man was unmasked."

"You heard wrong, Ms. Watson. If that's your reason for coming, then I'm afraid that I can't help you." Mary Jane squirmed under Mrs. Devine's glare.

Mary Jane hated herself for this. She found she wanted to tell Mrs. Devine the truth about her relationship to Peter/Spider-Man, and beg her for her help. But she couldn't; the woman knew too much already. _If only I could think of a better line of questioning that wouldn't be suspicious!_

"I'm afraid I'm going to have to ask you to leave, Ms. Watson," the woman said stiffly, getting to her feet. Mary Jane replaced the notepad in her duffle bag and stood as well. Though Mrs. Devine hadn't been the most forthcoming, Mary Jane was certain she hadn't been the one to reveal Peter's identity. That flash of anger at her hint that Spider-Man was less than honorable hadn't been feigned.

"I'm sorry to have bothered you," Mary Jane said. She thanked the older woman and left, still feeling the woman's glare burning a hole between her shoulder blades.

It was getting late, but she still had time before she was due to report to Otto. She decided to wait for the children; it was almost dark, and they probably wouldn't be out much longer. So she sat on the stone steps outside the apartment complex's main doors and waited.

About half an hour later, her patience paid off. Two young boys split off from another group walking down the sidewalk and ran towards the building. They slowed when the spotted Mary Jane, looking at her curiously.

Their resemblance to Mrs. Devine was obvious, and she stood up and walked over to them, schooling her face into an expression that she hoped looked utterly harmless.

"Are you Timothy and William Devine?" Mary Jane asked. The boys eyed her suspiciously.

"Yes," the eldest, Timothy, said finally. He sidled away from her, keeping out of her reach. _At least some parents still teach their children not to talk to strangers. _

"I just wanted to ask you a few questions about Doctor Octopus's attack on the train," she said brightly. "I'm a reporter," she added. She'd said it so often, that she was almost beginning to believe it herself. The two boys looked impressed, but they still remained cautious. "I'll give you five dollars apiece if you talk to me," she coaxed. The boys exchanged glances, and then held out their hands expectantly. Mary Jane arched a brow; they had a good grasp on how this worked.

"You must have been frightened when it all happened, huh?" Mary Jane asked.

The brothers nodded, then William piped up, "But we knew Spider-Man would save us. He's not bad, like that paper says. He's not at all like that evil Doctor Octopus!" he said fiercely.

She wondered what they'd think if she told them she was working with said evil doctor. "So he's a real hero," Mary Jane said. "Tell me about what happened."

The boys launched into an enthusiastic re-telling of the battle, which involved re-enacting and much embellishment; in their version, Spider-Man could actually fly, and Doc Ock had run in fear of the mighty hero. They did let slip the one thing Mary Jane had been hoping for – they'd mentioned Spider-Man had lost his mask and that _they _had been the ones who had retrieved it from where it had fallen to snag in the gap between the cars. She seized upon this gratefully; she hadn't known how she would let them know she knew they'd seen Spider-Man unmasked. "You saw Spider-Man's face?" she asked.

The boys immediately clammed up. William had a frightened look on his face, as if he hadn't realized until then how much they'd told her. "No," Timothy said, trying vainly to cover their error.

"But you said you did," she pointed out.

Their expressions were stony, and their gaze darted towards the entrance to the apartment complex. But she was blocking their way, and finally, Timothy said, "We made a promise not to tell, and we won't."

"So, you can't tell me who he is?" she said, feigning disappointment. The boys shook their heads emphatically.

"Someone else came to ask Mom, and we didn't tell him, either, not even when he offered us money," Timothy said. "A lot of it."

"A whole suitcase full," William clarified.

"It would have bought us a lot of comics," Timothy said wistfully. "And we could have gone on that vacation Mom's always saying she wants to go on."

"But we didn't take the money. We all promised Spider-Man we wouldn't tell," William said proudly. "We kept our promise."

"This man who asked you… what did he look like?" Mary Jane asked.

Timothy scrunched up his face in thought. "He wore a suit. A new-looking one. And sunglasses."

That proved to be the extant of his recollection. Mary Jane suppressed a sigh of exasperation; after all, they had provided her with more information than anyone else. And it meant that someone with serious cash had been looking for information – and had probably found it from one of the passengers of that ill-fated train ride. Mary Jane graciously thanked the boys for their information, and left for her rendezvous with Otto.

XXX

Otto listened to Mary Jane's recitation of her findings without comment. When she finished, she drew a deep, nervous breath, wondering if she had failed – Otto's expressionless face certainly didn't give her much hope of a job well done. But after a moment he nodded. "It's about what I expected, though what you learned from the children is certainly more than I'd hoped for. It confirms that someone with money – a lot of it – is behind the hiring of the assassin. That rules out all of the petty thieves that Spider-Man has put behind bars, though I'll look into recent bank robberies in case someone stole the cash to hire the shooter. Can you think of any high-profile people he put behind bars who may have a grudge against Peter?"

Mary Jane just shook her head. "Besides Harry, Norman Osborn was the only one with the money and the motive, as well as the knowledge of Peter's identity." At Otto's confused look, she clarified, "He was the Green Goblin."

"Ah," was all Otto said. Then, after an uncomfortable silence, he asked, "Can you use that gun of yours?"

Mary Jane started, casting him a guilty look. How had he known? _The actuators, of course. _She shouldn't have been surprised that the actuators could see through her purse. She wondered just what else the metallic monstrosities could do… One of them swiveled in her direction, as if sensing her thoughts, and she shivered. _He's my ally… he's not going to hurt me… _"I've had some practice," she said, keeping her voice steady. This subtle reminder that her partner wasn't normal had unnerved her. "I can hit the target, anyway. I… I don't know how I'd be if I actually had to use it on someone, though."

"This could be very dangerous for you, Mary Jane," Otto said. "The more I think about this, the less I like you being involved. These people won't hesitate to kill you if you find out too much. I can protect myself, but you…" He shrugged.

_But you have already been kidnapped by two supervillains, _Mary Jane mentally completed. "I can't just sit back and do nothing," Mary Jane said firmly. "I'm a part of this now, and I won't rest until whoever is behind this attack is brought to justice."

"That's what I thought you'd say." Otto turned away and began to stride across the rubble-strewn warehouse floor, beckoning for her to follow. "I set up a few targets for you, so you can practice."

Mary Jane was about to protest that she knew how to use her weapon, then stopped herself. She was involved in something potentially very dangerous. It wouldn't hurt to keep in practice. She nodded her thanks and moved to a distance from the targets approximating that in the firing range and assumed her firing stance. She ignored Otto as he left to attend to other matters, blocking out the creaks of the rotting timbers in the wind and the scuttling sounds that surely belong to rats, and took aim. She squeezed off several rounds, and was pleased when three of her four rounds hit the target, one of them nearly in the center.

"Good," Otto said approvingly. Mary Jane started; she hadn't known the scientist was watching. "But you're going to have to work on shooting without taking up position every time. If someone attacks you, they won't stand their waiting for you take up your firing stance to shoot." Mary Jane colored slightly. He was right; she did take too long getting into position before she fired. That was fine in a firing range, but if she was actually attacked… She shuddered, and prayed it would never come to that.

"You're right," she admitted. "When I bought the gun, it just… it never occurred to me that I might actually end up in a situation like this. And no one really taught me the proper way to use a firearm – I just know enough not to accidentally kill myself."

"Maybe I can help," Otto said, taking the gun from her hand.

Otto held the gun with far more comfort than Mary Jane had. With practiced ease, he ejected the clip and counted the number of rounds left. Rather than replace the clip, however, he stared at it, his expression distant. "Is everything all right?" Mary Jane asked worriedly.

Her question startled him out of his reverie. "I was just remembering," he admitted. "It was my father who first put a gun in my hands. He was terribly disappointed in me, my father was; he wanted a son that was strong, athletic… instead, he had me, who he viewed as being soft and weak, never mind that I was the smartest child in my class. He tried to get me into sports, but every attempt failed miserably.

"So, in one last, desperate attempt to 'make a man out of me,' my father took me hunting. He hadn't touched a gun in years, and I'd had no practice with one. But he was determined to haul me off into the wilderness and make me kill something. We drove upstate to a tract of forest that some of his friends said was a good place for deer, and my father left me at an old deer stand while he went to scout out the area. I waited for two hours for him to return, and when he did, he was limping and yelling for me to grab our gear because we were leaving. My father, a 'real man,'" there was no mistaking the sadistic glee in Otto's voice, "had shot himself in the foot." Mary Jane gave him a tentative smile; she wasn't sure whether to find the incident funny, or to be disturbed by Otto's evident delight in his father's pain.

"It's a shame, really," Otto continued mildly, "because while my father was gone, I practiced shooting at targets. And I discovered something: I was _good._" Otto slammed the clip back into place, turned, and fired. He hit the target dead center. "The path of the bullet is a matter of physics, and I was able to apply what I had learned to hit the target." His lips twisted into an ironic smile. "Had my father not been such a lummox, I may have been able to show him I wasn't such a disappointment, after all." Otto fired again, and from the look on his face, he could have been imagining that the target was his father's face.

"Still got it," Otto said with satisfaction. "I hadn't held a gun for awhile after that, until… We had a gun, Rosie and I. I was away often, and I didn't like leaving her alone in the city, so we bought a pistol. It's been awhile since I practiced with one, though." His face had become serious as he spoke about his wife, and his tone contained an edge of sadness. And then the moment of vulnerability was gone.

Mary Jane wondered what had brought on this sudden outpouring. Was he attempting to gain her trust by opening up to her?

Or maybe he'd been alone for so long that he needed it.

Otto turned towards her. She assumed it was to hand her the gun, but it seemed the scientist wasn't done showing off yet. Without so much as a backwards glance, Otto raised the gun, pointed it behind him, and fired at the target again. The resulting hole was only about an inch away from the other holes grouped in the center.

"That was incredible!" Mary Jane said. And alarming; she'd assumed that one could remain safe by staying out of reach of the actuators, but Otto's skill with a gun meant he was deadly from a longer range, as well. "I've never seen anyone hit the center without looking."

"Actually," Otto said sheepishly, "I cheated. I sighted through the actuators' 'eyes.'"

"You can see what they see?" Mary Jane asked, intrigued. Otto nodded. "What's it like? It must be confusing!"

"It was disorienting at first," Otto admitted, "especially when I was trying to see all four of them at once. It's like having…" Otto paused to think about it. "Like having four television screens inside my head. It doesn't interfere with my normal vision, but it can be distracting as hell. What really threw me, though, were the colors."

"The colors?"

Otto nodded. "I'm colorblind. Or mostly, anyway; I can see the color red, but that's about it." Otto shrugged, saving Mary Jane the effort of offering any sympathy. "It's not as bad as it sounds; I've lived with it my whole life without a problem. I would never have known what I was missing until I began to see through their eyes."

Abruptly, Otto changed the subject. "It's getting late. Do you need an escort to your apartment?"

Mary Jane consulted her watch and blinked with surprise when she saw the time. It was nearly midnight. "I'll just call a taxi. Er… could you wait with me until it arrives?"

Otto agreed, and stood with her outside the barrier fence until her ride arrived. In the chilly night air, Mary Jane hugged her arms around herself and shivered, wishing she'd brought her jacket. To take her mind off the cold, she asked, "Where are you going tonight?"

The scientist considered for a moment. "I made some contacts during my, erm, criminal career. I'll speak with them first. I also know of some criminal hangouts." He smiled thinly. "With my reputation, I should be able to intimidate someone into talking."

Mary Jane decided not to dwell on whatever intimidation tactics Otto might use. She resolved not to press him for details the following morning. As long as his methods produced results, she didn't care.

A set of headlights appeared, making their way slowly down the rutted track. It had to be the taxi. She turned to see Otto slipping away before the headlights could catch him. Before he could vanish, Mary Jane called out to him. "Good luck," Mary Jane said fervently.

He stopped and turned back, giving her a nod of acknowledgement. With that, Otto set off into the night.

To be continued…

In case anyone is going to try to call me out on this, I know most cases of colorblindness are red and green deficient, but in my biology classes, I've heard of cases where red is the only color that can be seen. Considering the fact that I envision this as being like _Sin City, _where only certain colors exist in the black-and-white film, it seemed appropriate.

And I hope no one objects to Otto's little revelations to MJ. He is trying to gain her trust, after all, and I've been itching to use this scene somewhere in the fic; it's one of the first I came up with. There's really no room for it later in the story.


End file.
